


So Much More

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-29
Updated: 2003-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-27 05:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12074142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brian sees Justin for all that he really is.





	So Much More

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Justin's an artist. Everyone knows it. Just ask.

"Justin? Oh, he's an artist." That's what they'd say.

But you know so much more than that.

Because there's nothing like coming home to crumpled wads of paper littering the floor of the loft. Strewn everywhere but the wastebasket they were aimed at. Looking around and finding him sitting at the table, mumbling to himself, frowning at the page. There's nothing like sneaking up behind him and telling him, "If you don't stop what you're doing, you'll have frown lines before your time." Because sometimes *your* bullshit is the only thing that makes him smile when he's frustrated. When he's overwrought with stress.

You know something more than others because they don't wake up some mornings, walk into their kitchen and find his latest masterpiece stuck up on the fridge. As if there's a very talented six-year-old in the house. You don't know when he put it there or what he was thinking when he did, but there it is. A sketch of your son eating a building block to greet you and your morning hangover.

You know more because you see more. See his eyes bulge as he lurches violently for the nearest drawing pad and pencil (because they're everywhere) and draw with the speed and fervor of someone who's seen something amazing. Watched him launch into an impromptu frenzy of pencil scratching paper, getting lead dust all over his fingers. "An artist's hands," you tell him.

You know something no one else does because they aren't drawn as frequently, they aren't watched as closely as you are. They don't have every single one of their physical foibles studied, committed to paper and then left for them to find while feeling under the dresser for a lost sock. 

You can't find your sock but look at this. A picture of you in that jacket he borrowed for his hustler stunt. You don't see any foibles. Picture of perfection? Yes, you are. To someone, anyway. You smile slightly at the paper and then set it down. Maybe you'll put it on the fridge for him to find. Why not? But wait, what's that scrawled on the back? Justin's wispy and flourishing handwriting in a small block of words near the top.

'He wears arrogance like a  
leather jacket  
with a turned up collar,  
like a tight shirt with  
tighter pants and  
boots: thick like his skin.'

Poetry? Your no authority on the stuff but that's what it looks like. You take it with you into the kitchen, turn on a better light. 

Curious. Did Justin write it? Is it about you? It seems to be that way. Is there some kind of hidden meaning? Were you ever meant to it? You're in such deep concentration that you don't even hear the incredibly loud elevator that leads up to your loft. You hardly notice your door sliding open and the artist in question stepping in. 

He leans over the counter to look at your face. "If you don't stop what your doing," he says with a grin, "you'll have frown lines before your time." You laugh. He thinks he's so witty. "Where did you get this?" Justin was now looking at his work.

"I found it under the dresser." You drape an arm over his shoulder so he can't leave and ask (in you best 'tease-the-boy' voice), "Did you write this about little old me?"

Oh, he's too cute. Trying to keep his face blank and ending up looking panicked. So you kiss him to distract him. And then you kiss him to thank him. Then you kiss just to kiss him. And then you do it again.

Justin's an artist. Everyone knows it. Just ask.

But you know so much more than that.

Because he's so much more than that.


End file.
